


New Lives Begin

by Tumblefish



Category: The Secret Garden - All Media Types, The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
Genre: F/M, Future Mary/Dickon implied
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-31 12:57:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15119861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tumblefish/pseuds/Tumblefish
Summary: "Across the lawn came the Master of Misselthwaite and he looked as many of them had never seen him. And by his side with his head up in the air and his eyes full of laughter walked as strongly and steadily as any boy in Yorkshire - Master Colin!"So ends the book but what happened during the rest of that remarkable day? This fic attempts to find out with each chapter told from a different character's point of view at a certain time in the evening. First two chapters were on ff.net but for here they've been edited and changed.





	1. Mrs Medlock

Without a word being said between them the staff of Misselthwaite Manor knew that tonight all rules had been done away with. And now they were sat around the vast scrubbed table upon which they took their meals, or, in the case of the most junior members, perched shoulder-to-shoulder on top of cupboards and counters leaning forward and swinging their legs as everyone discussed the events of this extraordinary day at the top of their voice together trying to piece it together with what they'd seen in the months between that odd girl arriving from India and Master Colin today being revealed not as the half-insane invalid they all took him to be but a strong, healthy lad. And the girl, Miss Mary, well, she was as bright and cheerful as any child ever was plus pretty with it.

There was so much to talk over that despite the hour at which most of them would have to rise in the morning and the length of their working days no one wanted to go to bed. So the servants sat with the table strewn with butter dishes, hams and bread, to which they helped themselves along with jugs of beer to soothe throats parched by chattering, and gossiped. The suspension of protocol was so complete that everyone's opinion from that of little Betty Butterworth the scullery maid to Mrs Medlock herself was afforded the same respect.

A bell rang. The newer servants turned their heads to look at the bells and their neat labels to see which one was sounding however most of the staff were old hands and could distinguish one bell from another by the smallest change in tone. It was the study bell that rang and everyone knew who it was summoning.

Mrs Medlock got to her feet.

''Ee's no right to be angry with you, Sarah-Ann,' said Mrs Dixon the head cook. Her use of Mrs Medlock's first name in front of servants of a lesser rank would at any other time be deemed highly inappropriate but tonight it was a gesture of solidarity. 'No right at all.'

'Aye, but 'ee can do what 'ee likes though, can't 'ee?' someone else pointed out.

'Mebbe won't be so bad. 'Ee's probably off his head on that stuff anyway,' a third voice chimed in. 'Or dead drunk.'

'Junkie they call it,' added Ben Weatherstaff reaching for a beer jug. As he did the faded serpents and mermaids tattooed on his arms rippled and flexed. As a youth Ben had sailed on each of the seven seas acquiring a unique store of knowledge. 'Comes from China opium does. Off of the junks, which is what a Chinaman calls his ship, see?'

Enjoying this sudden exotic twist to the conversation those around him nodded eagerly.

'Tis a powerful thing an' makes a man into its slave,' Ben continued. 'There's places on any dock int world where you'll find rooms full o' folk lost as ghosts chasing the dragon.'

'Whating the who?' asked one of the footmen.

'More Chinese,' said Ben. 'Like dragons they do and what I'm sayin' about his Lordship is that 'ee...'

 

Mrs Medlock shook her head as she left the hall. Despite what the others believed she, one of the very few servants who actually spoke with Lord Craven on a daily basis when he was in residence, had never known their master to be anything other than entirely lucid. It suited those that toiled below stairs to have turned their employer into a madman and a drug addict as that was more interesting and provided all sorts of delicious fictional drama with which to relieve the monotony of work. That he dosed himself frequently with laudanum was true but if that was how he found relief from the pain of a twisted spine and crooked shoulders then so be it. Mrs Medlock was a kind-hearted soul and did not like to think of others suffering.

The door of Lord Craven's study was always left open so that the dogs could come and go however as Mrs Medlock knocked respectfully on the frame she saw Hector and Paris curled up together on the rug in a huge heap of snoring boarhound.

'Come, Medlock, won't you sit down?'

She took one of two unoccupied chairs by the empty fireplace and sat as she had been taught many years ago; bolt upright on the very edge of the seat with her legs crossed at the ankles and her hands folded neatly together in her lap so that as little of her as possible was in contact with the chair. It was not her place to sit at ease when in Lord Craven's presence.

The man himself was leaning against the wall cane held loosely in his right hand. Mrs Medlock had been so taken aback by his unexpected arrival and their interview earlier in the day that she had failed to notice how well he looked. She did so now and saw that the hollows in his handsome face had filled out a little and that he was no longer deathly pale.

'What has been happening here?' he asked.

'My Lord, I don't quite-'

'Perhaps I should be clear,'  he said, talking over her. 'Why have I returned to find so many things changed?'

'It's that girl.' Mrs Medlock hastily corrected herself. 'Miss Mary.'

'A good enough place to begin. Tell me about her.'

He become as still as a statue and Mrs Medlock found it surprisingly easy to forget he was there. She gazed ahead while she talked giving an honest account of all that she knew. When she was finished Lord Craven moved and with a grimace of discomfort that narrowed his coal black eyes sat down opposite her.

'It would seem we've both had quite a shock today,' he said with a smile. 'I must confess that I struggle with the fact that two children managed to deceive a house full of adults but it seems that they did.'

'I am so sorry, my lord,' Mrs Medlock said, flustered. 'I take full responsibility. I shall resign my place and leave as soon as you wish.'

'Why on earth would I wish that?'

She did not reply.

'You are vital to the running of this house especially now when everything is going to be different.'

'It is?'

'Colin and Mary need a home, a proper home not one of endless locked doors and shuttered windows. This house must come alive. In the morning I shall be requesting that a suitable architect attend here at once to survey the place and oversee whatever repairs and alterations are necessary. If more servants are needed then engage them, I both value and trust your judgement. If more, I don't know, equipment...er...brooms and polish and the like would be beneficial then you are to purchase as many and as much as is needed.'

Mrs Medlock gasped, this was her dream. It grieved her that such a fine and ancient house had been so thoroughly neglected, now she was the one who would oversee its rescue from cobwebs and decay.

'Whisky!'

Lord Craven's cry made her jump.

He gestured to the sideboard and the decanters gleaming in the lamplight. 'I should be grateful if you would pour one for me and for yourself.'

The world was upside down! Never had she imagined that she would one day sit holding a glass that she couldn't bring herself to drink from, as that seemed like too great a liberty to take, while with her perpetually remote and uninterested employer she discussed the needs of a house he finally seemed to have remembered was his. She could scarcely believe it was happening.

'It mustn't end with the garden, do you understand?' Lord Craven said, face flushed with excitement as he pushed his hair out of his eyes. He looked young, then again, Mrs Medlock reminded herself, he was young. Not yet thirty-five there was no reason why he couldn't still be the master forty years from now. 'It was dead, I'm sure it must have all been stone dead but the children made it live, now we shall do the same for the house. I'm not living in this wing anymore it can be, it can be demolished for all I care. No, I shall have a modern family wing constructed with a school room and a play room and whatever else it is that the children might need. And I will have new rooms, there's far too many memories in the old and I no longer care to endlessly relive them.'

'If you please, my lord, there are improvements needed below stairs as well. That stove's not been changed in three generations, poor Mrs Dixon's a martyr to it.'

'It'll be replaced as soon as possible,' Lord Craven declared with all the enthusiasm of a man in possession of both grand plans and the means to see them through. 'There's so much to make better, Medlock. Not only the house, there's the grounds plus the estate and its tenants to consider. I saw a family in one of those little cottages on the moor only this afternoon - children. Cheerful enough it seemed but what more can be done for them and how many more like them are living on my land?'

He took a deep swig from his glass then held it up, seemingly lost in a thought that Mrs Medlock dared not interrupt.

'I was taught that "lord" comes from the old Germanic tribes,' he continued at last in a dreamy tone. 'A chieftain's purpose was to provide bread for his followers. Generations ago men would get down on their knees and pledge not just their loyalty but to give their lives to protect whomever of my family was the lord at the time. In turn those lords were responsible for the well being of those who lived on their land. Today that responsibility is mine, has been since the day my father died, and I will honour my title. We shall be a team you and I. Such a team.'

'And Pitcher,' Mrs Medlock added.

Lord Craven shook his head. 'Pitcher is retiring with my blessing,' he said. 'He is an old man and deserves some softness in his life.'

'Might I make a suggestion?'

Lord Craven made a 'go on' gesture with his free hand.

'I think Pitcher would like to lodge at The Gatehouse with Martin, and Ben Weatherstaff. Bachelors together they'd be company and he can come up to the hall whenever he likes for a bite to eat. He'd enjoy that and it would cause him great sadness to be sent far away from you.'

She said no more on the subject knowing Pitcher and Lord Craven to be very dear to each other.

'That's excellent advice, thank you.' Lord Craven gave her a warm smile of the kind she'd not seen grace his features since before he'd buried his wife. 'It's late, we'll talk more and often about the great task before us but for now I'll let you go.'

 

After taking her leave Mrs Medlock hurried back down to the servants' hall where her reappearance silenced dozens of wagging tongues.

'You've been gone an age,' Mrs Dixon exclaimed. 'What happened?'

''Ee sacked thee,' someone guessed.

'Sacked us all,' said someone else.

'The house is bein' torn down.'

'Nay, tis being painted bright blue all over.'

There were giggles at that last comment which gave rise to a volley of humorous suggestions that everyone laughed over.

'We're all gettin' paid in moonbeams from now on.'

''Ee wants us to build a river in the ballroom.'

'We all have t'grow beards.'

'What about the women?'

'Especially the women!'

The laughter died down and the servants stared at Mrs Medlock expectantly. Eyes resting on familiar and trusting faces she felt a rush of affection for them all.

She smiled.

'You'll never guess what we're about to do...'


	2. Dr Craven

Dr James Craven stood in the East Landing's window and stared down at the lawn watching a father and a son as they walked together. When Colin began to jump about seemingly out of sheer high spirits and Archie's face lit up with a laughter not present within him for a more than a decade it was all James could do to stop himself from crying out in distress.

To his annoyance at this moment of exquisite torture he was not alone.

'What happens now?' asked the large and gregarious young woman who was Colin's latest nurse; a post he'd always regarded as being a grave misfortune to the holder. 'Will I be let go?'

It was the note of hope in her voice that grated. He knew how little she cared for both her place at Misselthwaite and her chosen profession. She disliked the country and disliked the sick so what on earth she thought she was doing working as a nurse James had no idea.

'I don't know what's about to happen,' he replied. 'And, young lady, I have far more important things to consider than your farce of a career.'

He turned on his heels and stalked away.

On reaching the sanctuary of the grand room that had long ago been appointed as his study he closed the door and for a terrible moment felt that he might burst into tears.

That boy, that wretched selfish boy! What trick had Colin employed to fool them all? Worst of all how had he, Doctor James Henry William Craven, graduate of Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge, member of the Royal Society of Medicine been so easily deceived by a child?

Just minutes ago it had been James' professional opinion that Colin was seriously ill and so weakened by spending a lifetime in bed that his body was all but useless yet now that diagnosis was patently nonsense. He grabbed one of the many loose-leafed files of notes that he'd written up during his young patient's lifetime and in a fit of temper threw it at the wall where it burst on impact sending paper cascading everywhere. It was all meaningless. Even at a distance James had been able to see that Colin was as fit as any boy in Yorkshire and on top of that Archie was looking better than he had done in years.

With a roar of anger James swept everything off his desk then threw himself down on his chair and sat with his head in his hands struggling to maintain his equilibrium, hating the way he seemed able to breathe only in long shuddering gasps. His gamble had not paid off. He would not be the Master of Misselthwaite Manor.

It had been a simple and workable plan. Lilias, sweet girl that she'd been, had died and James, who was from the poorer side of the Craven family and had to work for a living, immediately surrendered his London practice and set himself up as personal physician to his cousin Archie who'd gone clean off his head with grief and to Archie's sickly new-born son who was not expected to live more than a handful of days. All Archie had had to do to become one of the richest men in the Empire was inherit and accordingly all James would have to do was wait because the baby's death would restore James to his previously occupied position as Archie's closest living male relative. The family tree had meant little while Archie had been a young man full of life and then suddenly it held the promise of imminent and near-infinite reward. After that first examination of his new patients James had publicly maintained a suitably solemn demeanour then in private he'd hugged himself with glee secure in the knowledge that he wouldn't be waiting very long.  

It had been perfect and while James was not an unscrupulous man and would never have harmed Archie or Colin he knew that he wouldn't have to because the baby would die and Archie, unable to bear the stress of his wild unnatural seeming mourning, would soon follow. James' best estimate was that within a month he would be the next Lord Craven and the manor house he'd loved from afar all his life plus the land and fortune that went with it would be his.

And then he'd got stuck.

Archie somehow regained his wits and began his restless travels while Colin had clung to life and grown to become first a demanding toddler and then a hysterical child with no redeeming features that James was ever able to detect. They'd lived: the crippled, solipsistic father and his lunatic son leaving James marooned. Archie gave him the grandest house in Thwaite after the Rectory but he failed to create a life there mistaking a lack of education amongst the villagers for a lack of intelligence and only grudgingly allowing them the benefit of his medical skills when all other options had been exhausted.

'Damn it all!' James screamed aloud as he thumped his fist into the desk. His covetous desire of Misselthwaite had seen him throw away his entire thirties, the decade of a man's life where he should be consolidating his position and becoming someone of worth and achievement. Ten years and in the end it had got him nothing.

Eventually he brought himself under control and got to his feet. He was going to have go downstairs and plaster a smile on his face when he saw Colin and say - what on earth could he say? Should he abandon all his hard-won scientific knowledge and talk of miracles? Was there anything he could do in order to appear less of an imbecile? Approaching the drawing room James heard laughter and childish chattering. A nerve in his cheek began to twitch as he swallowed back his anger and fathoms deep disappointment. He hesitated in the doorway only to be spotted by Archie who quickly bid Colin to pause for a moment then came and guided James further down the corridor to be out of the boy's earshot.

James made to speak but found himself silenced by an upraised hand.

'Well now, my dear cousin, don't we have a lot to discuss?' said Archie in a highly sarcastic tone. 'Someone has made a tremendous error and I can't think who else it could be apart from you.'

'Archie I-'

'Quiet!' Archie raised his voice then glanced guiltily back in the direction of the drawing room. 'Go home, James. I'll send for you when I'm ready to hear what I can only imagine will be an outstanding litany of excuses.'

He stood close towering over his cousin who in that moment was afraid that Archie might strike him.

'All those letters,' Archie said. ' _"Colin remains very ill. I continue to do my best but there is little hope."_ ' On and on for years, wherever I was. Those interviews when I was here where you'd tell me that my son would never walk, would never live to become a man. What did I ever do to you to deserve that torment?'

James looked up into Archie's furious expression and decided that it would be wisest not to speak.

'Go away,' Archie commanded. 'Thwaite excepted, you will not set foot on my land until I say so. And unless you can somehow give a truly remarkable account of your conduct you can consider your days of grace and favour living over. You can go back to your precious London and...' Archie sighed, temper dying away. 'I don't care. I honestly don't care as long as you never contact me again.'

He walked away leaving James to summon a footman to bring him his hat and coat and to give orders for his carriage to be brought around to the front. For so long James had dreamed of the day he'd come up the drive as the Master of Misselthwaite Manor, now he was going in the other direction and away from the house he'd so ardently desired with his dreams in tatters.

He sat in the privacy of the rattling carriage and wept.


	3. Thomas Sowerby

Thomas Sowerby gazed out over his kingdom and saw that it was good. This was the kind of summer evening that spoke to a man’s soul. The sky was still light enough to see a good way across the moor and dusted with the pink that sometimes lingered after a spectacular sunset. Against it a lone skylark sang as it rose and dipped while the cottage was quiet while his youngest children slept. The air was thick with mellow nighttime scents and the sweet waft from the pansies and mignonettes Dickon had planted on the edge of the cottage’s bit of earth which out of necessity was mainly given over to the potatoes and other hearty vegetables which sustained them all.  
  
He shifted slightly on the low wall that marked out this tiny haven of life and passion from the moor. To some it would be a rough perch but to Thomas after a day labouring in the fields to be able to sit out here and to do his bit of dreaming gave him a comfort he believed couldn’t be rivalled by an emperor lounging against the softest cushions. Much of the wall was bursting with colour, a result of Dickon patiently encouraging moorland foxgloves and bell flowers to thrive in every crevice, apart from a small patch of stone which he'd left, saying _“sometimes tis good to have plain stone just fer sitting"_ clearly having noticed that his father liked to do so. He was an observant lad that one. And kind, Thomas added. That was the quality above all others that he wanted to see in his children. Of course some folk made their way in the world hollering and treating people badly and some of them got very far off the back of it but he believed that such folk would be rotten inside and know that they were. Dickon and his brothers and sisters had been taught from the earliest age to be kind whenever possible and that it was always possible.

He heard the back door open and turned his head to enjoy the sight of Susan walking towards him. She’d been an under housemaid when they’d met and he the labourer he was to this day temporarily brought in from the fields to dig out the foundations of a great summerhouse for the Lord Craven that was then. She was from a village on the other end of the vast Misselthwaite estate more than thirty miles from his and further than he’d ever travelled. She was nineteen, seven years younger than him, and the way the ties of the starched apron of her uniform hinted at her curves drove him to distraction. Eventually he'd managed to pluck up the courage to speak to her and discovered that she fascinated him like no one he’d met before. Twenty years and twelve children later he still absolutely adored her.

‘Wife,’ he said, holding out a hand as she approached. Thomas wasn’t a verbose man, affections and loving names did not trip flowingly from his tongue however when he said ‘wife’ in a certain tone his reward was always a smile that made his heart beat faster. When he called her ‘wife’ she called him ‘Tom’ and those two words communicated a deep and abiding love.  
  
Susan took his hand and he slid off the wall to greet her with a kiss.

‘Tha owes me a laugh,’ she said.

‘That I do.’

He’d promised her all those years ago when they’d been courting. He couldn’t offer her money or fancy things but he promised he’d make her laugh every day that she’d share with him and he’d kept it. They made sure that they laughed together and never let the sun go down on a quarrel. Now he asked her to sit with him then leaning his back against the wall with his reason for everything warm and perfect in his arms he told her a few details from his day in the way he knew she liked that soon set her laughing. He leaned forward resting the side of his head against hers. All those babies had left her soft and rounded while decades of labouring outdoors in all weathers had pared him down to lean muscle and bone yet they fitted together as if that was what they’d been created to do.

‘Dickon’s late back,’ he said after a comfortable silence.  

‘He’ll have been at the manor.’

What was he up to? Thomas wondered. Despite it being like pulling eye-teeth to pay one and three pence rent and for all the difference another wage would’ve made Thomas and Susan had agreed to let their son have a last summer as a child. In the autumn he would turn thirteen and Thomas would walk the five miles to the manor and have a word with Harold Roach. They’d been boys together which would count for something when he asked him as head gardener to take Dickon on and make an apprentice of him.

‘Isn’t right him spending so much time there,’ Thomas said. ‘Not without a job to do.’

‘Tis right for now.’   
  
Dickon being lost to some boyish pursuit that had been occupying him for months wasn’t Thomas’ biggest concern today so he raised what was.

‘Our lot were right down happy when I came home,’ he said.

As he’d walked up the path he’d been pounced on by a joyful swarm all shouting and crowing over their new half a crown each fortune and who took some moments to become sensible enough to tell him the tale of the man with crooked shoulders who’d stepped out of a grand carriage and asked to speak to their mother before handing them a golden sovereign. It was obvious enough who that man was.

‘More’n ten years since his lady, God rest her, were here and then His Lordship’s stood outside wanting you.’

Thomas had waited until they were alone to talk about this properly, it was an unprecedented event that made him uneasy. What on earth could Lord Craven want with his wife? He was surprised to learn he’d remembered that she existed.

‘I wrote him a letter. Sarah-Ann Medlock told me he was somewhere called the Lake of Como in Italy and so I had it sent there.’

‘ _What?_ ’

Thomas scrambled away from Susan so he could face her.

‘Hush now,’ she soothed. ‘Hush, all is well.’

‘Doesn’t sound like it is. What has tha done?’

Thomas was shocked. His children had a sovereign and now his wife was talking about writing and sending letters to the Continent as if it were nothing.

‘Remember when Dickon told us he had a secret?’

As if he’d been waiting for this moment the lad himself appeared and greeted his parents with his usual affection.

‘Hullo Mother, hullo Father. It does me well to see you.’

‘I’ll be well once someone tells me what’s going on,’ said Thomas.

Susan patted the ground and told Dickon to sit.  
  
‘Tis time your father knew your secret,’ she said.

‘An’ I’ll tell it to thee but first,’ Dickon puffed up a little clearly feeling important, ‘I ‘as a message from Lord Craven. I saw him and he said he’d ‘ave it written down all official like but that you should know as soon as could be and that he trusted me to tell you both.’

‘Tell us what, son?’ Thomas asked.

‘In perpetuity,’ Dickon replied. ‘I learned it for the message, it means forever. ‘Ee says that he sends you his compliments.’ he dragged that word out -  _comp-lee-ments -_ making himself chuckle as he attempted to mimic an aristocratic voice, ‘an’ his gratitude and says there’s no more rent to pay on the cottage in perpetuity.’

Blindly Thomas reached for Susan’s hand and she clutched it hard while gasping, ‘Oh Tom, oh Tom!’

For a few seconds all he could do was gape at Dickon who grinned at him.

‘I like deliverin’ messages.’

‘Come ‘ere, you.’ Thomas lunged at Dickon and kissed his head then squeezed him tight while Dickon pretended to protest laughing and twisting out of his grip as slippery as an eel. Thomas then turned to Susan holding her as she cried with happiness and relief feeling his eyes moisten too. No more rent. This would bring an ease to their lives that he’d never thought possible and would never have been able to supply himself. He was forty-six, the younger lads he laboured with ran rings around him now with how fast and strong they were, and sometimes, especially in the winter, his joints cracked and ached. Now he need not fear ageing and failing to provide for his family and this was something he feared more with each and every passing year. He kept it to himself though, kept all his fears to himself so as not to worry Susan. She had enough to be getting on with without getting herself bothered over his nonsense.  

‘Gratitude,’ Thomas said, looking at Dickon. ‘Tha said ‘ee said gratitude. For what?’

Then he listened with growing pride as in his clear, simple way Dickon spoke to him of a garden come alive, ‘Meester Colin’ and ‘Mistress Mary’ and 'the Magic' while Susan broke into the story from time-to-time to tell her part. When he’d finished Dickon submitted to one more cuddle and a quick ruffle of his hair before announcing that he was taking himself off to bed but Susan wanted to make a fuss over him and offered him bread and bacon and milk at which his wide eyes went wider and they went inside together. They left the door open for him but Thomas lingered, hopping back up onto the wall. He didn’t quite trust himself to be able to join them and not suddenly burst into tears or dance around the room. The constant struggle to always be in possession of one and three pence on rent day was over and, as he thought their story over, his eldest boy and his wife had yet again shown how much kindness they had inside them and how easily and without fuss they shared it.

The light had almost gone now, the garden was wreathed in shadows with the moorland beyond it a vast dark presence. From where he was sat everything in every direction from the cottages and fields to the villages and moorland for miles and miles around were owned by Lord Craven. Thomas heard Susan and Dickon giggling together in the kitchen. He smiled at the sound and knew himself to be the richer man.

 


End file.
